I Dream of Fire
by themightypanda
Summary: *Lets watch the world burn rewrite* A woman, lost and alone, on the run through Northern Russia is close to giving up, close to laying down with death, until one choice leads her straight onto the path of a group of people that will irrevocably change her life forever. Soap/OC
1. Cold Water

OH MY GOD… I am sooooo unbelievably sorry to all my readers for disappearing for so long. I lost the use of my laptop and internet for like, what felt like forever. AND I just got it back YAY for me! Anyhoo, instead of continuing where I left off with my story I'm rewriting it. After reading it myself I really wasn't happy with it, my writing has improved a lot over my unforgivable absence, so I'm starting over and here, right down below my rambling apologies is the first revised chapter 1! I'm excited for you all to read it, I'm a lot happier with this one.

Oh my gosh

Be prepaird for the awesomeness

*  
its finally happening  
*

After all this time  
*

DUN DUN DUN DUN

Name this for me,

Heat the cold air…

Take the chill out of my life…

If I could turn my eyes to look inside… would I see what's coming?

Metallica

1

A cold, frozen wind burns the pale flesh of her cheeks, her lips dry and peeling as she pushes against the blizzards gale force. Worn leather boots sinking deep in the snow drifts as she wraps her old keffiyeh scarf tighter around her head. The forest deep, dark and eternal towers around her, trees almost black as the brutal cold froze them into giant menacing sentinels, watching the small woman stumble her way to into the ever-waiting arms of death.

Somewhere off in the distance a wolf howls long and powerful, its mournful cry echoing off the mountains like the tolling bell. The girl looks up, eyes squinting against the raging snow and catches sight of the moon, the black sky bright with millions of distant stars. Worry creases deep lines into the skin of her brow and she prays she is still heading south. It would be so easy here, lost in a tundra not meant for lonely little girls, so easy to fall, to be turned around. She pulls out a small rusting bronze compass and checks her heading before stuffing the thing back into the pocket of her not thick enough jeans and continues on. A little more, just keep going. But it hurts, her body burns from exhaustion, from fighting the never-ending storm, from hours and hours of just fucking travel. From the hollow, rotting ache in her heart. The cold here is a terrible thing all its own, rage and hate, penetrating her layers of clothing as if she wore nothing, as if the flesh were stripped form her quaking bones and each step she took became harder than the last. But she kept going, readjusting the bags over her shoulder, tightening one of the many scarves and shawls wrapped around her head. Her other hand gripping a small black hand gun so tightly you would think it was her only line to what life she had left. And maybe it was, out here, there was more than just the unbearable winter to contend with and she could only pray that the larger more formidable beasts kept away, praying that there was nothing out in the black darkness that stalked her, beast… or man.

Dawn breaks the crisp ink of the night sky, banishing winters stars and floods the frozen valley in beautiful welcoming warmth, even if these bright rays don't dispel the rattling chill, the light helps in more ways than one would think. She's leaning against a tree, its bark brittle with ice as she tries to catch her breath, to keep her eyes open. She's so tired, so alone and so very close to giving up. Her mind, her body, her soul exhausted and she doesn't want to do this anymore, the soft snow covered ground looks so inviting now that the terrible blizzard broke and its winds died down. It would be so easy to just sit down and let her lead-weighted red lids fall shut, let sleep claim her. But death would follow before she woke. She knows this; the rational shrieking part of her mind knows that if she doesn't just keep moving she'll die. Her head turns a little, aching bloodshot eyes searching the tree line behind her as if she'd catch a glimpse of the reaper himself skulking amongst the shadows.

_Just keep the mountains behind you_ her mind tells her, _just keep them back there and you keep going that-a-way and you'll be fine_. And there she goes, praying again to a god that doesn't exist, sending her wishes and desperate pleas up to the infinite empty sky, but she doesn't care right now. Not here in this desolate place, all that matters is placing one small boot in front of the other. Keep going, don't stop. Stop and you die. It's simple and so treacherous but what else can you do? ****************

She doesn't know how much time has gone by since dawn, hours… Days… fucking years… time stands still out here, no watch, no phone, no way to tell. She checks again, turning a little to make sure those towering granite peaks are where they should be, chequered and fading floral scarves flutter and blow about her as the wind begins to pick up again, a soft groaning whistles through the frozen forest and pushes at her back. Keep moving. Nothing matters as long as she keeps moving, her mind numb. Her heart numb, and at least for now, in the face of this terrible place she isn't consumed by the throbbing, swelling darkness that sits like stone in her chest. At least, out here, amongst the dead forest and starving predators, she is nothing and the howl of the wind drowns out her mind.

She stops again; the grip on her gun tightens as the snow flurries fall, obscuring whatever large thing stands in the distance, becoming nothing but a dark blotch on the white horizon. She wonders if she has finally lost it. Can you see mirages in the snow? Is it a hunched over black troll, a monster born from a deprived, starved mind and failing body. Coming to life as each cold and dieing organ shuts down… One by one. Or is it something else. The girl pushes on, the way getting a little easier as the drifts fall from her knees to her shins, the dense trees begin to thin till she comes across what at first appears to be a clearing, her eyes bent and focused on the strange shadows in the distance that she doesn't see what's right before her till her hands sink deep in the white blanket and hit the frozen ground beneath. She gasps; shock and surprise send her heart into a frenzied panic as she looks back at what tripped her. _Train tracks?_ Her eyes light up at the first sign of civilization she's seen in… in a long time. It may not have meant much in terms of how lost she might be, but it was better than nothing. Coming to her feet and adjusting her bags again she turns back in the way she had been headed and for a brief moment of blessed luck the wind dies down, taking a bit of the blur out if the air and the dark shadowy mass suddenly becomes clear, and the sight it brings has her suddenly at a run. A smile twitches at her lips as she stuffs the gun in the back of her pants. Buildings, houses or not she can't tell from here, but it doesn't matter. A building means shelter from the wind, which means rest. The thought of finally being able to sleep even if for only a little while is enough to kill for at the moment and nothing will stop her.

About 20 yards away and she can see it's some old mill or whatnot, abandon during the winter and absolutely fucking perfect. But its what lays just beyond this ramshackle derelect structure that spreads the first full grin that's graced her palled face in months. Walking past the large building, she continues on. She has never seen anything so beautiful, each home packed tightly against its neighbour, the cobbled streets hidden beneath a foot or two of snow. Trees and shrubs are white statues littering the sidewalks and a small park. It's a poor town; she can see it from here. No fancy cars or restaurants. No café's or anything just the weathered homes and something off a ways that she assumes must be school. But none of that matters. Because homes mean people, and people mean food… food, clothing and money.

Now all she had to do was find the right place. You had to be careful, doing this sort of thing. Knock on the wrong door and you never know who opened from the other side and out here, like anywhere else in the world hid monsters with the friendliest smiles. So the girl decided to wait a while, and walked over to a bench in the park across from a row of town homes, brushed off the collecting snow and sat down.

She was beginning to worry she'd stumbled across a ghost town, abandoned and dead until the shrill laughter only capable of children rang across the crystalline air, echoing of the frozen homes like that wolf's call to the moon. Her eyes perk up, large hazel orbs spotting to small kids almost immediately as they rounded the street corner. This was excellent, they where happy and well dressed. Fuck if there was a god she would have believed this was a miracle. Two, grinning well-fed and well-dressed children puffed up like Christmas fucking sausages, was a sign of a happy home. The type of home that she needed and needed now. She watched, her eyes following the two as they ran and giggled, throwing the occasional snow ball at the other till they climbed the steps of a home just down from where she sat, her gaze following the small boy and girl as a woman opened the door and ushered them in out of the cold.

Before she stands, she slips one of her two bags from her shoulder and pulls the drawstring apart. Reaching a hand inside she pushes past the disassembled pieces of an old but much loved dragonov sniper rifle, numb fingertips prodding around blindly until they find the small fraying box she was seeking and pulled at it. Inside, sitting on the red velvet cushion was a shining small gold cross, something else that would ease the trust that she would have to gain within the first few seconds of that door being opened.

She knocked softly, her knuckles burning painfully against the hard wood as the sound reverberated beyond the threshold and it would be moments later that the sound of heavy footsteps could be heard approaching. Then the metallic clink of a lock disengaging before the door creaked open, revelling a large older woman with a round, rosy face.

"Da?" the woman asks, looking down with question in her blue eyes, taking in the small and alarmingly haggard girl on her doorstep. She can't be very old, she thinks, not more than 20 at least. It was discerning, and the poor thing looked like she was about to fall over and drown in her scarves.

The girl frowned, her eyes cast down for a moment before words began to tumble out of her mouth, her voice cracking from thirst and misuse, ignoring how strange she sounded outside of her own head.

"YA tak sozhaleyu , chto bespokoyu vas mem" she pauses, sniffling and wipes one small shaking gloved hand across her red nose and pulls her scarves away from her face a little more, "no ya ne popali , kuda idti , ya beremenna i delayet svoy put' v monastyr' na druguyu yego gory, no u menya net , gde ostanavlivat'sya na noch', ya mogu rabotat' i chistym, gotovit' chto ugodno, yesli ya mog by prosto ostat'sya na noch' , ya obeshchayu , chto ya budu khorosho."

The woman looks startled for a moment and the girls heart speeds up in fear of being turned away till concern shines bright in the older woman's eyes when she understands, spotting the cross hanging limply form between the folds of fabric.

"Da, da, gryadu skoro , prezhde chem zamorozit" she says quickly, laying a hand on he girls shoulders and ushers her inside, "Vy mozhete pomoch' mne prigotovit' uzhin da"

The girl smiles and closes the door behind her, shutting out the horrid, terrible cold. Locking herself into the warmth of one more strangers home, ignoring the small almost non-existent pang of guilt at how smoothly the lie had rolled off her tongue, but for now, it didn't matter.

Rough Translation:

I am so sorry to bother you Ma'am,

but I have got no where to go, I am pregnant and making my way to the monastery on the other side of the mountains but I have no where to stay for the night, I can work and clean, cook anything if I could just stay the night, I promise that I will be good.

Yes, yes, come quickly before you freeze

You can help me cook dinner yes

-***- And here is the new chapter one! Much improved if I do say so myself I'm sorry if the Russian is off, I used Google translate… next episode soon-***-


	2. The sound of winter

"Time takes it all whether you want it to or not, time takes it all. Time bares it away, and in the end, there is only darkness. Sometimes we find others in that darkness, and sometimes we lose them there again." ― Stephen King

2

The day went quickly in this small warm home. The girl played with the children, helped clean and cook, and at the end, when night came, prayers were said. The woman whose named she learnt was Ulina, aloud her to sleep on their sofa and for what seemed like such a rare thing; she actually slept soundly and dreamlessly with a full belly until the sun rose.

In the morning Ulina gave her, a 'care package' as she put it, which was a brown tote bag filled with cellophane wrapped bread and cheese, and a generous bag of beef jerky. She was beyond grateful as she said goodbye, such generosity was a rare thing now a days.

"Ey ! Podozhdi, ty nikogda ne govoril mne TY imya!"

The girl turned back, a frown scrunching her thin brows together as she wrapped a second shawl over her scarf, securing a hidden mass of tangled, dirty dark hair and thought about this. She wanted to tell her, for someone to know, but that kind of information was dangerous, even if the likely hood of this little reprieve from the world was to ever… lets say be happened upon by those unwanted, it was safer to remain anonymous.

"Zhanna!" she shouted back, a small crooked smile twists the dry peeling skin of her lips as the hole inside her chest throbs and swells a little larger.

She turns quickly, and it takes more than it should to keep herself from running.

Pulling a piece of the jerky from her new bag she chews it, her mind wandering as her eyes canvassed the side streets and small store fronts that she hadn't spotted the other day, a little perturbed by that but she had been in a sticky spot about to collapse and all. A moment later she spots a rundown corner store, the stained sign outside letting her now they sold random and probably expired crap of convenience. The door dinged shut behind her, catching the suspecting attention of an older gentleman whose wrinkled and beady eyed face says he's been stolen form to much to trust anyone. The girl smiles sweetly, the look must have been somewhat disarming as the man scowls for a moment before sitting back in his chair and returning his attention to whatever TV program he was watching. The girl sighs quietly and begins to browse the shelves, picking up and turning over random items and putting them back, seemingly interested for a few moments before sending the man a quick glance and snatching a carton of cigarettes from the shelf behind her and stuffing the box into her tote before grabbing a chocolate bar and tossing the man a few bills.

Maybe that was a bit much just for a smoke but it had been one thing that she had been growing desperate for; the smooth, thick poison was one of the only things that could help calm the raging nerves that would at times have her trembling like an old woman.

Walking slowly down the sidewalk, puffing away in some kind of strange fleeting contentment she kept an eye on the street signs. The town being a little bigger and less desolate than she first imagined must have a train close by.

As she had suspected it wasn't long before she passed by a sign, telling her that the local train, station wasn't far from where she was. This would be the easiest, shortest leg of her journey she mused, tossing the smouldering butt of her smoke into the snow covered road and picked up the pace. The station came into view around the next bend and she sighed with relief at the large throng of impatient people, all busy and tired, trying to get a ride out of the city to work. It was crowds like this that made slipping on unseen so easy. Just congregate close to a family or other woman about her age and push her way on when the doors open and the inevitable fight of rushing commuters ensued.

She would take the train to outside city limits and walk to the next ton form there, and maybe to most, this would seem a ridiculous waist of time and energy but the train passed through to the major cities from here, which were places she wanted to avoid. That and the longer she stayed on the engine the greater her chances of being discovered were, and Russian police were not a force you want to contend with. So the girl would do as she has been for the last year or so, fading from one town to the next, catching small breaks like this short train ride when she could, trekking the rest of the way on foot. Poland was her goal right now, a long way off but manageable if she paced herself, but from there… well she doesn't like to think that far ahead. So, with the long road ahead in mind, she walked forward, towards the crowd of people, and placed herself just behind a large group of woman who looked about her age, all talking animatedly away in such a bubbly tone that it was sickening. Soon enough the bell rang and the doors before them slid open, and the girl was crammed up and inside by the rampaging stampede. Immediately she veered left, avoiding the ticket collectors and the passenger cars and instead snuck into the toilette. Now, this again, might seem ridiculous and maybe at tad bit over the top but she is desperate, and a little paranoid, and in her desperation to remain unseen, must suffer through the stink wafting up from the hole in front of her, and no matter how fare she tries to squish herself into the furthest corner it doesn't help. But oh well, what the hell right? No point in making a big deal over it, because at least for now, she isn't outside, knee deep in the freezing snow.

To say the ride was short is an understatement, but she doesn't complain, pushing her way out of the small onboard lavatory when the next stop rings out in a fuzzy female voice over the intercom. Telling her its time to go. So she does, a little more reluctantly then she'd admit even to herself, pulling her layers a little tighter as the wind chill nips once more at her skin.

Deciding not to stick to the roads the girl immediately heads off into the winter white tree line. Tall ancient furs and evergreens tower around her, the morning sun glinting off the ice hardened pin needles… It is beautiful, cold, and starkly contrasting to the darkness eating away at the trespassers heart. She doesn't pay the trees any mind, focussing her frantic mind on steady footsteps and the mountains now before her. Keep going, just keep going.

The blue afternoon sky begins to dim, a warm unnatural pink stains the horizon as night threatens to choke the day out of the atmosphere and the girl is begging to panic again. Anger and frustration rearing their ugly heads as she thinks that she cant ever just catch a fucking break… that she should have stayed in that town longer. Spent a night in the closed down mill, anything but being stuck out in the wilderness at night again. She's trying to remind herself to suck it up, get over it and keep going, don't have any other choice or whatever, when her eyes pick out something about 50 yards through a break in the trees that is certainly not a product of mother nature.

"Spasibo Iisusa" she whispers, the warm spread of relief chases the ice from her veins in a moment of brief joy, a sentiment that won't last long, but for now, she doesn't care. This is just to god damn perfect to care.

The girl approaches a large derelict stretcher hidden behind the thinning forest, her eyes never leaving the utilitarian cement walls as she pulls the handgun from the back of her pants and approaches it like it's a sleeping dragon.

It seemed a strange place for an abandoned factory. Smack in the middle of nowhere, standing in all its glorious ruin. The cement a bleak beacon to the small woman now standing just outside the perimeter hidden behind a thick pealing tree trunk and the dense, dead underbrush. Her eyes, wide and hopeful search from broken window to broken window, her ears straining against the silence, against the sound of her heart pounding in her ears. Listening for a sound, an indication that she isn't alone here.

Nothing… absolutely nothing. She smiles crookedly to herself, leaving the cover of the old forest and walks quickly to the wall closest to her position, her shoulder pressed against the cold, frozen concrete and she moves, covering the outside, searching for a way in. Which really isn't hard with a place like this. Slowly succumbing the brutal elements, an old frozen lock on a service door cracks easy under a little pressure from the butt if her gun. The metallic snap echoing around the empty wilderness.

The door opens with a loud resounding creek and she thinks that if she if there was someone she missed she'd know about it soon; so she waits, crouched, and tense just outside but again, nothing happens. Nothing but the settling dust mites that swirl in the air as the wind from the mountains finds its way inside with her.

She closes the door behind her, and looks around. Confirming that this haunted place had at some point been a factory if the mass of broken and overturned, rusting conveyer belts is any indication. Pallet after pallet holds masses of old forgotten boxes. It was eerie she thinks, they way it looks in here, a few disjointed pale rays of daylight break apart the dark gloom, finding purchase through the shattered window panes. Lightening the inside just enough to see by; the girl looks up and decides to try for a place at the catwalk, noting the rooms near the ceiling and makes her way up slowly. The rusted metal staircase groans under her weight, her steps falter for a moment, her heart gallops, and she frowns. That would just top the fucking cake hey; finally, find a place to hold down in and she falls through a bunch of twisted iron to the floor below… splat like a fucking pancake. She shakes her head and reaches the landing. Being able to see through the grated floor itself is a little nauseating and she wonders where this sudden fear of heights has come from. No, not heights, death… she scared of dieing. Isn't everyone though. Every phobia, death at its roots in one way or another.

The old iron cat walk isn't as much of a death trap as she fears, making her way one foot in front of the other almost all the way around the perimeter, passing by the larger more open control rooms till she comes across a closed door, a sign, faded but legible tells her that its for supplies. _Perfect_. And its is, maybe a little musty, the stale are strong with rot and moulding paper, but it's small and compact. Only one way in and out. The back walls are occupied by to wooden shelves, teetering a bit with rot and the weight of random useless supplies. A few paint cans and file boxes are easily pushed aside and she looks around. Grabbing a few of the folded boxes leaning against the other wall and lays them down flat on the concrete, at least that will stave of the penetrating deep chill in the floor itself. Other than that, there's not much else she can work with in terms of gaining a little more warmth, but it's no matter. Nothing she hasn't dealt with before right. Curling her knees to her chest, she slides her bags from her aching shoulders, places the one holding her precious riffle off to the side, and the gifted tote between her thighs, and prepares for a meal fit for kings… to her anyway.

Later that night

The girls eyes snap open, instinct ringing the alarm bells in her subconscious like an air raid alarm and she sits up in a panic, heart beating savagely in her chest and she hers it then. Voices…men, muffled and a little far away but its distinct enough to know there's quit a few of them, by the timber and lilt of there accents she knows that whoever is down there is Russian, and that, is bad. Slowly the girl pulls her stiff muscles onto her haunches and creeps ever so slowly to the door, to the only thing separating her form the men somewhere below her. She doesn't risk opening it to hear better, instead opting to press her ear and its poor sensitive flesh up against the unbelievably cold metal. She flinches and can barely cover the hiss that pushes against the skin of her teeth as she tries to here what those down stairs are saying.

It was useless. No matter how hard she pressed herself up against that damned door, or cupped her ear instead, nothing was going to help her actually make out more than the low murmuring of what she assumed was strangers up to no good. A type of no good, she was going to assume was a very bad thing for her to be missed up in, and completely counter productive to the running away she's dedicated so much time to. So, instead of relenting to her curiosity she sighs, and sits back down, cradling the gun in her hands as she decides to wait out the party, not crash it. Until at least, a sound hits her ears that immediately tells her that someone else is playing party crasher, as soft almost inaudible footsteps pass the very room she is sitting in. One... two… three… maybe four men. Sneaking around up here and she can see in her mind what's about to happen just as the first shots ring out. The Russians below her scream and yell but the unknown attackers remain silent. It's weird, interesting and frightening and she clenches her muscles tight, completely stilling her body, until her breath comes out in almost suffocating small whispers between her parted cracked lips. Fear pangs at her heart as she listens to the men descend the staircase. _careful and quiet, _she tells herself, ever so slowly uncoiling her tense limbs and tries to stand up, in her mind this seems to be a good idea, to be prepared and all if those men decide to come back and officially clear the place out, until a realization hits her with such insurmountable horror that both of her damned legs are fucking asleep! She flails wildly, her arms propelling about her for something, anything and grabbed onto the first thing that came into reach. The wood of the old rotten shelf behind her creaks groans and the whole damned thing teeters, thrown off balance by her sudden uneven weight.

"Fuck" she squeaks as the whole damned thing comes crashing down around her, echoing out the loudest most terrible racket imaginable. Complete ribcage shattering panic floods her veins with ice and fire and she grabs the handgun she dropped and runs behind the door, squeezing herself into as small of a target as she can knowing that at any moment the door would be kicked in… any minute now. Footsteps, quick and urgent grow closer, stopping just outside her door. A silent deafening pause before the old, rusting weak door explodes open trapping her behind it and with it, the instant realization that she had no clear room to fire the damned thing. Handgun or not, she was useless pressed against the wall and the back of the door. It didn't leave much for anything so she drops the weapon and at the same moment, eyes locked on the back of the man who barrelled his way in to her hiding hole, she makes the immediate split decision and lunges at him. Leaping on his back, locking her legs around his waist, and winding one thin arm around his neck. The man swung his own arm back behind him, trying to pull her off. His hand reaching, lifting the sleeve of his thick coat up away from the black gloves, exposing the bare and so vulnerable flesh of his wrist. She snarls at him, baring her teeth as she bites down, and bites down hard.

"Aaargh, FUCK get this bitch off me!"

_English… He's speaking English , _She pushed the thought away and gripped the mans body tighter, trying in vain to squeeze the air out of his burly neck until another pare of big hands grip her own waist and wrenches her violently away. She falls, the second man looses his grip on her and she lands on the ground, but its momentary, a quick breath and she's on her feet again. Finally facing her assailants. One man, clearing pissed off, blood leaking from the bite wound on his wrist, soaking that one glove but he doest seem to notice, not with how madly he's scowling at her from beneath the rim of the dark hat he wears. The other man is most likely equally as angry but it's hard to tell from behind the skull printed balaclava he wears. It's a frightening and certainly imposing sight but she can't care about that right now.

She needs out and now. A second later her legs snap into action and she makes a run for the door but the man with the skull face sees it and charges her first. She yelps and ducks as his arms swing above her head as she tries to slip passed, until the other man swings one arms out and clothes lines her. Her feet fly out from beneath her as all the air sucks out of her lungs like someone just shot open her chest. She slams into the concrete, her head cracking off the hard ground and she rolls to her side as her throat throbs and chokes, dimmed only by the exploding pain flashing behind her eyes.

"That's enough of that" the unmasked man says his voice rough and thick with some strange accent she knows is familiar but at the moment is finding elusive. The man bends over her a bit, grabbing her arms and none to gently hauling the small thing to her feet. The scary looking guy has the most frightening pair of black zap straps in his hands and the girl twists violently in the hold she's in, trying and failing to free herself before it's too late.

"No! No please! Let me go!" she cries, wincing as the cuffs are wrenched to damned tight. "Please… I'm not one of them!" her cries fall on deaf and uncaring ears. The two men don't even blink over the scene she's making. The one she had bitten tightens his hold on her bound arms and pushes her out onto the catwalk well the other grabs the bag with her riffle in it.

"Thanks for helping out in there Roach" scary mask guys drawls sarcastically from behind her in a bitter thick British accent, coming out on to the catwalk beside her and she's trying to imagine the look garnishing his face that lands somewhere in-between smug and wondrously irritated. That's when she thought about what the Britt had just called the slightly smaller soldier.

_ Roach… his mother named him after a bug? Poor kid. _The men behind her not wanting to hang around started leading her down the stairs and out side, pulling on her arm as Ghost shoves open the very door she had broken through only a few hours before.

"Hey Ghost, radio for extraction" says the man that she's now sure is Scottish.

_ Ghost… these have to be there nicknames or something. _Because its way too much weirdness in one pool for those to be the tittles they've gone by since birth. She thinks about her name, or names really. One a gift her mother gave her that, over time had turned into something bitter. Something that now, only brought the foul taste of bad memories and bad men along with it.

"What's your name?" the one they called Roach says suddenly, stepping into stride beside her. The girl twitches slightly, hating the feel of his eyes on her. But she remains silent, keeping her own eyes forward; refusing to even glance in the young mans direction.

"Id guess a runaway, maybe daddy was mad at you aye girly… though I am wondering why you have a riffle in a fucking potato sake?" Ghost jibs from somewhere behind her. She frowns deeply, irritated and fuming at how stupid that assessment is. One she is NOT some over emotional teenager with daddy issues, even though she does have her fair share of problems, it's a little more serious than that. And it certainly wasn't some cushy home she was running from. Not that she was about to explain that though. Let these assholes think what they want.

"So… girly, what were you doing in there anyway" Roach prods more, and again receives no reply.

She barely even hears him, her mind and her feet rejecting the path that she's been forced into as the men around her lead her right back into the frozen forest she has been so desperately trying to escape. But it seems that no matter what path she takes, it's these same dead trees that always find her in the end.

After walking through the deepening snow for what's she thinks might be about an hour the girl's breaths shorten to quick and ragged gasps, and she's about to complain and demand to sit down right in the damp ground, but the sight of a clearing through the trees shuts the words off before they get a chance to leave her mouth, in its place a bubbling and burning fear. The clearing itself is empty of all but a single black helicopter, and as soon as the group pushes her its direction she instinctively digs her booted heals into the earth and snow, pushing back against her captors. Even though her attempts are weak and almost comical, no one comments. The Scott just grunts and grips her arm tightly walking her up and into the readying chopper. No choice, no way out, now where to run.

Ey ! Podozhdi, ty nikogda ne govoril mne TY imya!

- Hey! Wait, you never told me you're name!

Spasibo Iisusa

- Thank you Jesus


	3. Hearts a mess

HEY lovely people, here's the third chapter, I hope you like it, I got so into this that I made it really long. Let me know if I should split this into two. Anyhow, hope you likes it!

"I wonder if they can tell from just looking at me that all I am is a sum total of my pain. A raw woundedness so extreme that it might be terminal.

- Elizabeth Wurtzel

3

They were watching her. She could feel it, their eyes on her skin, burning holes through her armour to try to see inside. It was violating and terrifying and she wanted so badly to remain defiant towards these men but the longer she sat here, with her butt growing sore from the hard metal seat and the rolling, jostling dips and moves of the helicopter was really, really wearing her remaining patients and strength thin. That and she couldn't understand why they had the bloody door open! They are flying for fucks sake; the wind chill on the ground is hard to bare, but up here in the atmosphere, those same winds turned into howling, violent forces of nature, and that open door was letting it in. Letting it whip her shawls and scarves around. Strands of dark hair pulled loose to dance before her eyes as the tender pale pink skin of her face began to redden and freeze all over again. The girl grimaces, the most bitter, hateful scowl she can muster before opening her eyes and glairing right at the Scott. Just letting him know how miserable she is, and how pissed off that makes her.

He smiles…. He damned fucking smiled right back. Like it was a joke, like this whole damned situation was funny, a laugh it up chuckles sitcom. Her teeth ground together, her anger bursting a little, staining the frost singed flesh of her cheeks a darker pink, because you know what, she knows she's not that big, not that scary. Maybe she doesn't look intimidating at all, but to sit there all pompous and arrogant, Mr Big Shot Scotty boy over there, judging her!

"Shit" she hisses, the helicopter dips suddenly and the girl slides from her seat, the hard steel edge behind her scrapes painfully against her back, like she didn't have layers of clothing on. But this fumble has her struggling, the muscles in her thighs burning as she uses them, The last pent up vestiges of energy begin to slip away as she steadies her body, trying to pick up her weight, all while in a moving mode of transportation with her hands bound raw behind her back. This time when she looks around, finally seated, no one is looking at her. Their heads now conveniently staring at their boots, or their guns. Or like Roach, out that stupid open door, watching as the wilderness rolls by beneath them. The trees and forests blurring into one dark sea of green and white as the sun begins it's decent towards the horizon, lighting the evening sky aglow. It might have been something pretty to look at if it weren't marred by dark and menacing clouds. She frowns noticing this, and knowing what it means. That's one big bad storm coming in from the ocean. It's had a long time to brew its own anger and violence and it will set its mark in this valley. She shivers, a small piece of her actually relieved that she won't be here, or more correctly, be right down there in the trees to experience Mother Nature's vengeance first hand. Well, maybe that part of her is a tad bigger than even she would recognize let alone admit to, even to herself.

"ETA 15 minutes" a voice, thick and deep with a heavy Russian accent yells from the cockpit, effectively jarring the girl from her mind, and she can't help but think traitor.

She wonders where they are taking her. Probably some remote base camp till they can question her. That's bad too, with questions comes answers she can't give, there's just no way. Even if they are the good guys in all of this, these men would never understand. She'd be under arrest and sent to some secret military prison before she had a word in edge wise; and a place like that, well, it would effectively nail down the coffin she's been running from.

A vein under her left eye twitches subtly as fear and anxiety begin to coarse through her blood with renewed vigour. She can't let this happen, not after so long. Not after everything she's been through to keep herself alive. All those long empty, dark months, and endless miles. The girl knows she has to act as soon as this hulking metal death trap touches ground. Looking around at the other passengers, all four of them if you include the pilot are all big burly soldiers, not an easy feat to break away from under the best circumstances; but these are her cards now, so she thinks, formulating a quick and stupid plan just as the helicopter begins its decent into the darkening woods below.

The girls eyes dart out the open door, as the Russian pilot touches the bird to the ground and she can just make out some kind of old rundown house set a ways into the trees. Not good, if their field base as she had suspected it is the last place she needs to be, so, in light of this and the imminent threat of confinement and future possible torture the girl tenses her already tense and sore muscles. Watching the men around her stand, and just as that bloody Scott goes to grab her wrists again she goes for it, and slams her shoulder right into his chest, throwing the man off balance despite the large weight and height difference, he hadn't been expecting it. She doesn't wait around to see though, in the instant he stumbles back, she shoots off, dodging Ghost narrowly, feeling his fingertips graze her back, and then she's out. The blistering wind slapping her face but she doesn't stop, her legs pumping and burning, propel into the tree line.

This is dangerous and harder than the girl anticipated, simply with the darkness deeper beneath the evergreens generous canopies, she can't see all that well and stumbles around in the thick, frozen underbrush. Her hands uselessly limp in the tethers make keeping balance a challenge all on its own and her heart gallops like thunder in her chest, in her head, and she can hear the men behind her. Crashing through the trees like charging bulls and their gaining speed.

She won't make it. It's too late, and she's not fast enough, her energy draining away and leaving her legs and arms, a trembling, shaking mess and she can't breathe, her lungs on fire and its then at this moment as she slows down and her vision swoons that the girl fully understands the mistake she has made.

"Quick little mouse ain't she"

She thinks it's Roach who says this but it's hard to tell as their voices and faces begin to blur together, it's only the one powerful hand gripping her arm; the meaty thick fingers digging into her screaming skin that is the only thing keeping her on her feet.

Her body shook with exhaustion, fear and pain. Drawn hazel eyes stared off lifelessly ahead of the girl as the Scott led her into the old house she had spotted earlier. There was no use in fighting now, there was no way she'd have a chance, that she ever had a chance. It was a stupid, stupid mistake to make, jumping to quick into action before considering all the variables, especially the signals her own body where eagerly giving off. Now it's worse off then before with her captors more angry and pissed off, and any chance of leniency had now effectively, blown out the proverbial window.

She is lead in through the entrance and through a dark kitchen, worn and old but clean. The counter tops bare, and all that stands in this room is one round table and a few chairs. The next room is a different story and the girl sighs deeply, taking in the water and cigarette stained, faded green floral wallpaper, something that as ugly as it is now must have been a dreadful eyes sore its it hay day, not to mention a picture or two would have done this place a little bit of good. A cold and soot filled fire place took center place at the front of the room, opposite the most hideous sofa she has ever seen, which is saying a lot, but with its yellowing threadbare striped cover and generous stains she was inclined to just plop her butt down on the rough and scratched to shit wood floor. Well, almost, if she wasn't so damned tired. But more than all of this old worn country charm, it was the only table in the room that really had her attention captured. The table itself was nothing to marvel at, being a simple cheap thing made of compressed board cut into a circular shape with straight boring legs. No, it was what sat in an incredible tangle of wires on its surface that she found rather fascinating. Each computer screen, of which there are three, where thin, sleek, and black. One monitor depicting a complicated sort of decoding program, the second and most fascinating held a line of photos surrounding a centralized photo; and it was a photo of a man she knew well. His face mocking her from its pixalated dead glare. Nothing but hatred and insanity shined out from those eyes, and her stomach flopped, her chest tightening as the man behind her tugged roughly on her arms.

"Sit" the Scott barked, pointing at the unseemly sofa. His eyes, a sharp cold blue stood out in all their brutal intensity amongst the tanned and rough skin of his face. All hard lines and stubble; maybe she shouldn't be checking out her grumpy captor but she's to tired to care as she sits down gently, easing herself into the surprisingly soft cushions, trying to avoid jostling her aching wrists and shoulders.

The man looks down at her for a moment. His dark brows, one broken by a white scar, deep in a frown as he thinks about what to do with her, before walking away back into the kitchen and grabbing one of the chairs, he marches with heavy purposeful steps right back over to her, then sits down. Those eyes of his bore into her own and she jerks. Hating the way he looks at her, and hating more how hard it is not to look away.

``It be best for you lass if you told me what you where doing there`` the Scott says after a beat, sitting up straight and crossing his arms over his chest. She catches the way his coat shifts and moves over his body and underneath his well-stocked vest. Each grenade shining out at her like little time bombs next the mass of riffle clips and gas grenades that really do add the most imposing quality to his visage. Not like he needs it though. He's grown in patient with her silence and the steely glint in his pale blue eyes has turned close to murderous.

Her eyes meet his again and this time she can't maintain the contact. Her stomach lurching as she begins to sweat in the cold air. She can't focus, can't think properly. She's so tired and her mind is dulling with the effort to keep herself upright. But it's that hole in her chest, that one that while the adrenaline is pumping and the drive of survival is at its peek, is hardly noticeable. Is now begging to throb with a life of its own. Dark and cancerous, and the weight of it grows heavier. The longer she takes to answer the harder it becomes. The words like the air she breaths feels too thick in her throat and against her dry sticky tongue. Leaving a bitter, foul taste her mouth; but she knows she has to say something. Anything even, just to get him to shut up and leave her alone.

``Please, just let me go`` her voice cracked as it whispered from between the chapped and peeling skin of her lips. Barely more than a whisper, dripping with shame at how weak she has become, at how pathetic she is. Sitting here with her head bowed and her eyes down cast, the shawls and scarves that have protected and shielded her for so long, now feel to heavy and suffocating. She wants to pull them off and breathe but her burning, aching wrists won't let her.

The Scott sighed, aggravated and just stared at her, watching as she slouches forward, as her downcast eyes darken. It looks like she's caving. Not in the sense that he would like, where his brilliant and terrifying modes of interrogation have broken her will and his pray is just eager for confession. No, this is something different. Something personal and entirely unique to the strange, homeless girl.

He resists the sudden intense urge to shake his head, chastising himself silently instead. Knowing that he has to hurry this up because now is certainly not the time to be playing the sympathy card. Even if he is nearly convinced she has nothing to do with their targets, he has to do this. So, instead of letting her go, instead of untying her nearly bleeding wrists the Scott presses on. A small wedge of guilt lodging itself into his rib cage like a stone.

"Make this easy, just tell me why you where hiding in the factory and your name" the Scott says again, his accent growing heavier and thicker it seems with each moment he's still sitting across from her, but she cant… can she? No! There is no way to be honest here. Maybe if she thought about it carefully she might get away with a few selectively vague truths, mangled about with a few light lies. That could work, but what name does she use? Certainly not her own, but making up one isn't a great plan either, considering that she knows one of these guys, probably one of the ones smoking in the kitchen, will jump to a computer and verify the information, and within moments of that they would know she had been lying. And it is always better to squeeze by with a suspicious glance than to be actually caught with a big fat fib and no way to back it up.

_Ugh, damn it all…_ she thinks with a frustrated sigh. She at least had somewhat of a plan, though it resembled Swiss cheese with how many holes it was riddled with, but when she weighs her options this was the lesser of two the two evils. So to speak.

``Emilia…my names Emilia`` the girl called Emilia murmurs, her eyes glance at the man in front of her, taking note of his stony expression of not amused anger and how not a single muscle in his body twitches.

``Emilia…`` he repeated, her name hanging in the air like hanging smoke.

Her gaze rises to the ceiling as her lugs inflate with air, tasting the slight stale, mildewy air and rolls her shoulders, making her growing discomfort as obvious as possible.

``Emilia… Yolnova``

His scowl deepened and he leaned forward, bringing his face closer as Emilia leaned back away from him. Her shoulders and arms flaring up with sharp burning pain as her body pressed into the rough fabric of the sofa behind her and the scarves where becoming an inferno.

"You don't sound Russian" he states, clearly accusing her of lying to him, but at least on this account she can gain a point and enlighten him.

"I was born here" Emilia tells him with some exasperation, the pain in her shoulders is nearing excruciating, but she continues anyway, her gaze shifting to stare at a faded, discoloured stain marring the tacky, terrible wallpaper, "in the Capitol but I left for London when I was 8, been back about 6 years now" ok, that was vague enough, and that was seriously her limit on sharing for today. He could be as big and bad and imposing all he wants, but this Scott was gonna have to start bringing in the scary stuff and shove smouldering red pokers under her nails if he wanted to get more. Never mind that this was also broaching dangerous territory, not close, but almost, and there was absolutely, not a way in hell she was going to utter a word on that. And it was in that moment that Emilia felt her body grow heavier again. Drawn inwards, falling towards the growing, consuming tumour. Like a deep, throbbing black hole and she thinks that it is so pathetic to be so easily and terribly affected by such things. And again, that word weak bangs around her skull. Because that's what she is… weak and useless. Running away like a goddamned coward. A dog with its tail tucked between its quaking legs. Maybe she should have stayed and faced the wrath and fury that had no doubt followed her from that god-forsaken place.

``Hey! Did you hear me?" the man barks roughly and the girl jumps, her ravaged mind snapping back into focus. The muscles in her arms and shoulders twitch severely as the pain begins to burn brighter; but she won't complain. Emilia won't even ask to be untied. Pain is nothing but nerve endings alerting the brain that the body is under duress and injury; pain can be over come. Though, even with that wonderfully insightful piece of wisdom, she isn't sure how much more of this she can endure. Stuffed up on this sickly sofa, shaking in pain as her limbs slowly loose circulation and blood, a cold sweet breaking out across the pale, wind burnt flesh of her face, the thinning meat of her cheeks bloom a deeper red as her stomach churns.

"No" Emilia says flatly, her voice quiet, whispering over the sticky mass of her tongue as she catches his eyes or a brief moment; but again she cant maintain the contact, not as his cold, crystalline eyes narrow right back at her. Nor as his jaw tenses, muscles twitching in his unshaven cheeks. She is trying him, she knows, knows that this is a stupid, and incredibly bad game to be playing, but she really doesn't know what she's doing and the longer they play the weaker she gets, the more she slouches, her hands now numb, lead weighted sacks, hanging limp from the scalding fire of her arms.

"Why where you there, in that factory" he says again, his voice low and menacing. He watches her, twisting a little, readjusting her legs clad in frayed and torn jeans, folded over her leather boots and he thinks it's maybe time to cut her a bit of slack. Give a little get a little kind of thing. Strike a deal per say. What can it hurt really, other than avoiding a mess if she stays bound the way she is for much longer? He knows how tight the straps had been pulled, and at first it had seemed like a point for him in terms of getting her to spill her shit a little faster; but the Scott was quickly coming to see how counter intuitive this was becoming.

"Will you answer my questions if I untie you?" he knew he was being soft because she's a girl, if it were a man sitting in front of him being difficult, the guy would already be sporting a good couple black eyes. Maybe a split lip and a mouth full blood; but it's not like that. And this small thing is about to kill over, though at the mention of freeing her arms, those haunting eyes of hers snap up to his and the man holds in a flinch, and wont even think about how his own heart had just clenched, seared by her sudden beautiful intensity.

"Turn a bit," he mumbles, shifting forward in his seat as he unsheathes the knife in his vest and Emilia complies, wincing a little as she turns her body awkwardly on the cushions. Exposing the swelling, angry flesh for him, then closes her eyes. Feeling the edge of the knife against her skin is like ice on fire, then she's free, a sudden rush of blood floods into her hands and she almost cries out at the sudden explosion of pain as they come back to life. But its her turn to speak now, so she turns back to face him, her stomach churning nauseously and with one, trembling battered arm she tugs her mass of fabrics away from her, unwrapping the rest and finally letting the mass of unruly dirty hair fall about her face.

The Scott blinked back in surprise at how much she had actually been hiding under those rags. He almost blushed with how taken a back he became at the sight of all her beauty…wait… he shook his head, dispelling the thoughts from his mind. Don't be a fucking idiot.

``I needed an out of the way place to sleep. I can't afford a room at the moment``

He frowned at her, almost laughed too at how ridiculous this was, and knew, if she was telling the truth, this was a colossal waist of time. But he didn't say that, instead, regained his fierce grumpy demeanour and sat back against the wooden chair, arms folded across his chest with dominant authority.

``You couldn't have found a more in the way spot, though if you hadn't made such a racket in there we probably never would have have found you``

Emilia sighed, filling her lungs dip with the stale air, a thicker note of smoke than before and just as she was about to reply a man walked into the room. His heavy footsteps drawing her eyes away from a series of deep mysterious scratches in the hard floor to his old weathered face. Thick and meaty, covered in a large bushy moustache that spread down to his jaw. His eyes, cold and grey, glared at her form for a moment, scrutinizing the captive before turning his attention to the Scott. He must be new or just got back from doing something else, because this scary old man was certainly not part of the crowd that had kidnapped her doomed ass.

The Scott stood and the pair walked over to a corner away from her, leaning towards one another and sharing hushed words while fear and trepidation spread through Emilia's tired body. She couldn't hear them, no matter how hard she strained her ears, a word to two here and there but absolutely nothing to make a go of. It was frustrating, knowing that they where most likely discussing her. Just at that moment, the old man nodded and walked away, as grim faced as when he had walked in and that's when she suddenly knew what they had talked about. This ass hole had actually given that man her name to run. _Fuck_… now would be a good time to start praying. Emilia didn't think there would be any red flags yet. Despite the year that's passed, considering other parties involved, leaving possible trails was not something they did, or wanted. But shit did leak once and awhile…_stop!_ There is no point in freaking over it now; it's too late to do anything about it. One thing at a time, at least she's unbound now, so, if it comes to it. At least she can attempt to fight her way out; as she thinks this, her eyes immediately begin to scan the room around her, looking for anything that she can use as a weapon. But this sad old place is despairingly low of pointy or heavy objects.

``So… Emilia``

She looks up at him and shifts uncomfortably in her seat, like he had just caught her doing something bad.

"So, what do you think my friend in there will find when we look up your name?" he asks nonchalantly. A raise of his brow and the corner of his lips twitch, thinking that the old man will actually find nothing more than a few out dated parking slips, maybe a theft or two judging by her life style. But this girl, Emilia, looks to frail and beaten down to be a threat to them; and she certainly doesn't fit the bill to be working with the bad guys. He squints his eyes, watching her chew on the dry skin of her full lips, looking at the floor again, and something begins to egg at his mind. Something about her face now that it's framed by the dark halo of her hair that stirs… something. Like a very vague sense of deja view. But from where? He knows he has never met her before; Emilia, despite her slight frame certainly has a presence, one he wouldn't be likely to forget. So what is it then?

"I doubt you'll get anything" the sudden interruption of his thoughts but the soft timber of her voice makes his heart squeeze again.

"I'm not a very exciting person" Emilia mumbles this, one hand gently holding the raw and painful flesh of her wrist. The lie rolling from between her teeth, knowing full well that her life has been anything but dull, but this little interrogation is driving her crazy and its taking everything in her to sit still and not bolt in another vain attempt at freedom. And that picture, the one sitting on the computer screen, screams at her.

Just as her lips part to release another placating falsehood, those heavy footsteps announce the return of the old burly British guy, and Emilia's muscles twitch and flinch. That ever present fear shining bright in her wide eyes, and she can't read the look on his face.

``Nothing Soap, just a 3 year stint in the Russian military, rank Private, than our little gal here disappeared off the map, no credit cards, no paper trail nothing`` he said, his thick British accent was rough, almost like someone had rubbed his vocal cords with sand paper. He eyed her for a moment longer, doubt clear in the lines of his face. Like he suspects that all this is just bullshit and she has to be hiding something. God, if only they knew. This nearly makes Emilia laugh, that and the fact that the old man just called the big tough Scotty boy here fucking soap. SOAP! Seriously, what the hell is it with these guys? Oh yeah, back to the issue and the picture that Emilia had seen on the laptops screen. Having been shortly dispelled from her mind by the current discussion, she realizes how bad of a pickle she's in if these guys figure out what it is she's hiding.

``I was just 20 at the time, when I `disappeared` as you say, `` Emilia stated blandly, deciding that keeping to 'their' version of events was the best course of action.

``So, where did you go after Emilia`` Soap asks standing up, resisting the intense urge to stretch his muscles. The situation feels like it just became more complicated by this news though he can't see how that is. The fact she had at one point been a soldier, that she's Russian, has absolutely no baring on their prerogative; but that little nagging whisper in his head won't let up.

The corners of the room deepened to black as someone in the kitchen snapped the light off. Sending dark shadows playing across the strong, solid angles of Soap's stubborn jaw. The scar slicing through his brow and down his eye stands out in stark contrast to his skin and for one ridiculous moment Emilia is taken aback by how ruggedly handsome he is, and the blaring curiosity to know what's under the knitted blue wool of his hat. Shaved head maybe? Frowning at her thoughts again, she chalks it up to nothing more than exhaustion, and probably something akin to anaemia. She's going crazy, that's all; like come on, who drools after their captors.

She does, that's who… she's just fucked up, completely and entirely one big ole mess. No man, not even this guy, would want her around even as a friend if they knew. This sent her heart spiralling again and that great and terrible ache that is always just writhing beneath the surface begins to churn a little more violently. Spreading the cold chill of its talons out into her body, her mind. Grasping at all the parts of her it does not yet own.

Soap tilted his chin up little, something strange was happening on the sofa in front of him. The girl, no Emilia, had for a few moments looked nothing more than perturbed at what was happening, again refusing his questions like a stubborn child until something in her face changed; and not like before, that had been a different thing, seeing her deflate in frustration and hurt. But this… this is wrong, and even though he doesn't know her from anyone else, she's a stranger under arrest, possible bad guy; it doesn't stop how much he doesn't like what he's seeing. The soft angles of her face turn away from where Soap is standing and those hazel orbs darken. Lines crease the burnt skin of her brow and all of a sudden, she looks older. Transformed beore his eyes, youth to this… like the life, the light inside of her had gone out. It was disturbing to see, and he tried to keep reminding himself that she was a stranger. That he doesn't care what's happening with her, she'll be gone and out of their lives soon enough. But it won't stop the pull and plunge in his chest or the way he takes a step towards her, then two big steps back.


	4. Unforgiven

YAY! Here's another for you! Enjoy!

"Maybe terror and dread once experienced.

Embed themselves into you even when the cause has gone,

Leaving behind a sleeping horror,

Which is too easily awakened." - Rosamund Lupton

4

This was it. The pinnacle moment Emilia dreaded most. With two Captains looking at her from across the hard scarred wood of the kitchen table. Mirrored looks of anger and distrust deepened the lines in their brows, and she knew… This time, she was fucked; wringing her throbbing hands in her lap as sweat covered her pale skin and it stung. It hurt, like her chest hurt, her heart constricting, before spiralling into a banging gallop, pushing the air out from her lungs, threatening to drown her where she sat. She should have known it was too good, to easy. For fucks sake, Emilia more than anyone, knows how terrible life always is. There are no breaks, no second chances. She had made her choices, and it's her that will keep paying that price for the rest of her life. And now they knew, and she had lied, sort of. But even half-truths won't get you far in this place, and if the murderous sets of their jaws are any indicator to go by, well, she is, as previously stated, well and truly fucked.

"You lied to us poppet" the old man, who Emilia has recently learned is a Captain, his name still eluding her, but she cant think about that now. Not as a sick, sour taste swells across her tongue, and she forces back a gag, pressing the sharp ridges of her shoulder blades onto the rough, splintering wood chair she sits on. The pain a distraction against the storm raging, trapped beneath her skin.

It's like a nightmare, to dark, the only light a hazy grey from a lamp in the adjoining room shed's little illumination of her surroundings. Casting haunting, deep, infinite, shadows on the cabinets behind those two men. Their faces half emerged from the black, and she thinks they've never looked more terrifying.

"No choice" she whispers back, her eyes searching for the bag of hers Ghost had brought in with them earlier. Though more out of the intense growing need for a smoke than anything else, if you consider that even trying to fight back against the four of them was completely pointless.

Soap stays silent as his friend scoffs, leaning back in his own chair and mimicking the Scott's stance, his eyes gleaming out at her from beneath the brim of his hat; a floppy one with a brim, like the kind she had seen fishermen wear growing up. Though on this man it looked anything but cheerful.

"You expect us to believe that? Come on you can do better" his voice is low, menacing in the darkness and her pulse jumps again. How the hell did she get here? She doesn't want this… hell, she didn't want any of the bad shit that's happened. Don't they understand! Emilia was never like them! Like those men, the bad ones… and she had run the moment she could.

Soap again stays silent, watching and listening. He doesn't like this… at all. Something was off about all of this. Though, even he has to admit, when those photos first popped up on the monitor and the memory of where he had seen her face before came crashing in around his skull, he had very nearly shot her dead. But now, after letting the rage boiling his blood to cool, he had a moment to think about this. He just wasn't sure how to tell Price, the old man was hell bent in his vendetta, be damned anyone who was run down along the way. In the end, Soap needed more information.

"So tell us about this" he says slowly. His voice low, rumbling out from his chest like a revving motorcycle as he slides another photo across the divide. Right into Emilia's small, shaking hands and the angry red flesh at her wrists screams out at him.

She frowns, spinning the 10 by 8 black and white prints around to her end of the table, and her gut spins. Nausea and panic pushing their way up her throat almost violently. _Damn it! Damn it! _It just gets worse, and this? This just tops the fucking cake. Emilia resists the urge to start laughing in despair as she looks down at a small, grainy woman, knowing it's her. An automatic riffle clasped tightly in her hands as she stands on a platform above a sea of people, but it's the man standing next to her that has garnered her attention and that of her captors. It was him… the man she is running from. The man from their computer screen, the man who has terrorized millions. This was it, tell them now and risk the consequences, or don't tell them and go to prison. A place where this man and his friends will, without a doubt, find her.

Staring down at the tabletop, Emilia can feel their eyes on her, watching… judging her. It's a struggle just to lift her head, forcing her gaze to the Scott's as she swallows a sticky lump in her throat. Trying to choke her as she thinks of a way to explain this whole big fucked up situation.

"Its… its not, what it looks like" she mumbles, her skin heats up with her raving pulse as fear and anguish shake her to the core. The two men unexpectedly keep silent. She's struggling with this, that much is obvious. So they'll wait, the old Britt though is more waiting to split apart the barrage of lies he's sure to hear stumble from her lips.

"I was…um, after I left the army, I met up with someone I've known for a long time…" her jaw tightens as short, dirty nails dig into the tender meat of her hands, "he… I though he was different… then he was- I mean, I knew he had a mean streak… but I thought, I thought we wanted the same things."

Soap frowned, he knew who the girl was eluding to, and began to wander what kind of relationship she shared with one of the worst mass murderers in this world; and for a reason the Scott chose to not look at, he wished that she was, in fact innocent in all of this.

``Go on`` the old man urges, his rough voice deep and hushed and Emilia fights to keep her breathing even, a thick pressure building up behind her eyes. That lump is back, lodging itself painfully in her throat.

``You have to understand… that Russia had been falling into ruin, divided… it was horrible and I wanted… needed to do something to help… Vladimir he, he said so many things, and it had made sense… I, we, we wanted to unite Russia, bring our people together again… at least… that's what he preached" Emilia inhaled a deep shuddering breath, stealing herself against the tremor in her lips or the way her chest began to fracture.

"But our ideals were nothing alike, something, that by the time I understood it, believed it, it was to late… he was to far gone, insane in his power and all I could do was watch him burn the world down"

Soap shifted, uncomfortable in his seat. It was a strange and terrible thing, watching this girl break before them. Like he was glimpsing some deep, dark secret, something sacred that his eyes shouldn't be witnessing. As if simply by being a party to this he was betraying her; but he doesn't understand why and shakes his head, trying to rid the flow in his mind.

"How did you know Makarov" the old man asks next him, either ignoring everything she had just said or logging it away for later, either way, it irritated Soap. It irritated him that irritated him, and this was becoming more complicated than it should have been when they dragged that desperate girl away.

"I'm his step sister" Emilia replies flatly, barely registering the surprise that lights up the faces half shrouded in shadow, "My, my mother married his father while pregnant with me… we lived with them till I was a little older… but it was to much for her… my step father was a mean man, anyway, she moved us to London where we stayed for a while, then she died and I went home, joined the army… and the rest, well… there's nothing I can do to change it now" Emilia deflated with the air in her lungs. A heavy weight settles across her shoulders and she wishes that everything would just stop. That time, the world… everything would just cease to be, no more pain… no more hate, no death. The killing would stop… the echoing screams in her skull would stop.

"So, if you were so chummy with our pal, then what where you doing hiding in that hovel, on the run, if the state you're in is anything to go by"

Her eyes snap up to the old mans, his grey eyes nothing but narrowed slits as he probes her. Searching for the thread to pull, the one that will unravel her story; and the Brit missed the swift, intense, flare of anger that burst through the steel walls surrounding her; Soap saw it though, startled by the abrupt change in her eyes. Gone was the dull ache, replaced by a burning pain and fire.

"You don't get it! I didn't want any of that to happen! I want peace! I want the pain to stop! I tried; I tried so damned fucking hard to stop him!" she snapped, raising her small voice for the first time in a long time, but she didn't care. She saw it now, by the look on that geezers face, it didn't matter what she said, she was going down for everything, "You know how your CIA knew about the airport attack before it happened?! Because I let it out, I leaked it, but you where to late, and all th-those people… they-they…FUCK… Theyre all fucking dead!" Screams explode in her head like thunder, crashing through her system, destroying her, drowning her heavy heart in grief and guilt. She wasn't fast enough; she wasn't enough, would never be enough.

"I vowed that the next time, that I would be more prepared... that I wouldn't fail… so when I heard of an attack set for Paris, of a chemical agent that Vladimir had acquired… I knew what I had to do" she pauses, gulping in air, sweating and sick to her stomach, thinking how insane everything was, how ridiculous it is that she's sitting here, spilling her secrets to the men looking to kill her brother.

"I waited until I could figure out where he had stored them, I had… maybe a few days to work this out, anyway… I did, and to make a long story short I tampered with those canisters to the point that they where ineffective… it wasn't all that hard… I always did have a knack for mechanics and chemistry" her voice trails into a whisper, staring off towards a blackened corner of the room till a scraping sound on the table top draws her eyes away, to find Soap sliding a pack of cigarettes within her reach, and the instant swell of desperate need almost takes Emilia's breath away. The smoke is between her lips fast and she ignites the lighter. Its small flame illuminating the soft, thinning curves of her face, and blackening the dark tired circles that hang beneath those big haunted eyes.

With his shoulders hunched and tense, Soap shares a glance with his mentor. He believes her, with no doubt in his mind that the small woman sitting uncomfortably across from them is genuine… the pain in her eyes, the anger. Its to raw, the wounds that lay somewhere inside her have shone out bright. A glimpse into her heart, brief and terrible, then it was gone. In its place was nothing; vacant and empty… dead.

"Well Emilia Paplinova, it's been a pleasure" the old Captain says then, extending one hand out across the divide, towards the girl, smoke slowly pluming from between her lips as her eyes drift to his offering, then back to his face, and its then that he introduces himself, "you can call me Captain Price".

Emilia's eyes screwed into a confused squint for a moment before snapping almost comically wide. The beating organ in her chest thumped hard for a moment before spattering on as a strange sort of panic took hold. She turned, fully facing them now, the closet look to joy Soap has ever seen on her face and it's jarring. How much of a transformation happens when she smiles.

"Holy fuck… Captain Price? Captain John Price?!" Emilia leans forward, squishing the smouldering butt of her smoke out in the small tin ashtray.

Price and Soap shoot a look to the other before the old man nods, waiting to here his suspicions clarified, thinking he knows what has gotten this small thing all riled up. Emilia nearly bounces in her chair, her hair, a wild, tangled mess falls about her oval face

"Jesus, I know who you are… well, not really, but Vlad- Makarov has talked about you specifically, he hates you, and your task force…" her eyes gleamed as another realization dawned on her and she couldn't believe how she hadn't at least suspected it before, "this is Task Force 141... Shit… what the fuck, you know, he is scared of all of you" Emilia finishes, pulling another cigarette from the pack and sparking it to life before brushing a few strands of hair away from her eyes.

"Is that right…" Soap looks at her, wondering what the chances are that, out of all the billions of people spattered across this planet, she is the one they stumble across. He looks down at the stained white Band-Aid wrapped around his wrist and what surely will be a permanent impression of her teeth. Emilia's teeth, Makarov's stepsister, his soldier… the Scott eyed her again, reassessing his first judgment of the girl and began to question how much they could actually trust her. He doesn't doubt that she isn't telling the truth, but if this guy is family, well, what would it take for her to turn against them. If they don't arrest her first.

"So…" Prices voice snaps Soap from his mind, and the old man finally stands up, his face now in near complete darkness. He walks around the table, closer to Emilia and Soap watches as she shifts backwards, flinching subtly at the proximity, and what ever else is inside her that he can't see.

"What do we do with you?" he wants to tell Price not to patronize the girl, they all know what's going to happen, despite what she's told them and because of it too, they have to bring her in. She'll go to trial. This wasn't fair… and why is he being such a pussy about all of this.

"Let me go?" Emilia asks with a nervous smile, but the corner of her mouth twitches down and the light is gone again; and Soap thinks it must be exhausting, with your emotions so sudden and powerful like that, shutting themselves on and off again. She's struggling with everything that has happened. All soldiers do, in one form or another. He grinds his teeth as Price laughs at her.

"Not a chance love… No, you know what, I have a better idea, one that I think will make both parties happy"

Emilia tensed; she knew what he was going to say. She knows what he means; they want her to help them, in exchange for her freedom. Shit, she should be leaping on this like the seat of her pants just caught fire, but something laden behind his words stops her. It will be too good to be true, it always is. Everything is always to good to be true, people always betray you, or turn from you. No one is ever as important as others would make you believe, and that, that enables people to use you… to leave, to hurt you… to break you.

"You work for me… as a consultant of sorts and you get to keep you new name, no one knows who you are but us… and Ill keep you out of prison… or worse, in exchange for your services" Price explains, a dark, smile cracking through his face and he waits for her to say yes. Because he knows she will, even if she hates them and thinks this is the last thing she would do… the girl will still say yes because what other choice does she have. It's this or prison, and prison for the relatives of mass murderers is not a place a little thing like her wants to be. Or back in the hands of those who would do so much worse.


End file.
